


no chorus will come in

by queenjameskirk



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Odd Thomas AU, back on my sad bullshit folks, bill can see dead people idk dont question it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 01:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20685026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenjameskirk/pseuds/queenjameskirk
Summary: The day Will Hanlon dies, Bill is the first to know.





	no chorus will come in

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have a beta, all mistakes are my own.

__and if tomorrow it's all over  
at least we had it for a moment  
oh, darling, things seem so unstable  
but for a moment we were able to be still

-no choir, florence + the machine

The day Will Hanlon dies, Bill is the first to know. 

It’s raining, which later Bill will find fitting, but currently he’s thinking about how the excess amount of precipitation lately has been drowning his magnolias. It’s a Tuesday, the beginning inhale of a pretty quiet week. Bill’s thinking about the magnolias, about the rain, but also about the work he has to do on the novel before the 20th. His editor/assistant/person who keeps his ass in line wants the next three chapters by the end of the month and Bill has been staring at a blank screen for the majority of the morning. 

He’s standing at the stove when the downpour really picks up, beating the grass of his backyard into mud and flowing loudly through his gutters. Bill spins away from the soup he’s heating up for lunch and goes to the sink to peer out the window. 

The wind makes the water fall at a slant, pattering against the siding of Bill’s childhood home on Witcham street. The house feels bigger and emptier than it did when his parents still lived here, now that it’s just Bill alone to wander the creaky floorboards, and Bill can almost feel the wind squeaking in through cracks in the siding and chilling him to the bone. The leaves of the big oak tree in the backyard are dancing in the wind, some breaking off and flying through the air. 

Mike’s dad is in his backyard. 

Bill knows it’s Will right away, would recognize the overalls and big brown cowboy hat anywhere. Over the years the Hanlons have been an important support system for Bill, since moving back to Derry following his parent’s accident. They’ve brought him meals to his front door, offered him a place to stay when the silence of his big empty house has become too much, have treated him like their own son. 

Bill knows he hasn’t done enough in return. He’s still working on that. 

The rain beats down on Will’s hat, drops bouncing off in a mist to meet the ground, but he isn’t wet. Bill squints his eyes, looking through the kitchen window and holding his breath in order not to fog the glass up more than it already is. No matter how much water falls onto the man in Bill’s yard, his clothes and skin seem to be remaining bone dry. 

Will raises his head, the brim of his hat lifting and showing his face. He looks serious for a moment and then cracks a quick smile. It’s not a happy grin. It’s an apologetic one. 

He walks forward in the rain and his feet don’t sink into the wet grass. He leaves no boot prints behind in the mud puddle that is rapidly taking over Bill’s backyard. He travels from beneath the oak tree all the way to Bill’s back door without leaving a single trace. 

When he gets to the back door, Bill already has it open for him, letting in the cold and wet air. 

Bill Denbrough can see the dead.

He supposes he’s had the gift forever— since he could lift his head to see the world. He thinks he probably saw all kinds of dead people when he was really young and just didn’t realize what they were, just assumed that sometimes regular people had blood stained clothes or were missing limbs. 

If he’s honest, the first dead person he actually remembers seeing was Georgie. 

Georgie didn’t come to him on the day he died, the day he got swallowed up in the Derry sewers. His brother waited until after the funeral, until after Bill watched them lower that tiny casket into a hole in the Derry cemetery. He waited until they were coming back home to that silent house on Witcham street to reappear, sitting in the middle of Bill’s unmade bed. 

“G-G-Georgie?” Bill remembers stuttering out, dropping the program with Georgie’s kindergarten school picture on the front onto the floor. It was a whisper, no louder than a breath of air. This was before the clown took over Bill’s life, before that Fall bled into Summer, but even then Bill knew instinctively that ghosts were real, that the afterlife wasn’t too far from their own world. 

“Guh-Georgie, is that really you?” Bill asked, approaching his brother as slowly as he could make himself. Georgie looked up at him, so tiny and younger looking that Bill ever remembered him being, and didn’t say a word. He just held his arms up like he used to when he was a baby, asking for Bill to pick him up. 

The dead don’t talk. Bill still doesn’t know why. 

Bill reached down and clutched his brother to his chest. His mind raced with the possibilities, the hope in his chest bursting out and flooding the room like sunshine, but he was stopped dead in his tracks with one brush to his brother’s skin. 

Georgie was solid and real but he was cold, clammy like he’d been pulled from the river, like he was still rain drenched in a gutter. But he curled up next to Bill and let him hold on all through the night, giving Bill the last good night’s rest he could remember having for a long time. When he awoke the next morning Georgie was gone and the sheets of his bed were undisturbed where his brother lay. 

Georgie went away for good after that day in the sewers. Bill thinks when they killed It, they also killed the last piece of Georgie that was tethered to this earth, the last thread of him cut. Bill likes to think of it as a birth rather than a death, tries to think of it as Georgie passing on to another place better than this one, where there are no clowns and no spiders and no pain. 

He’s seen many dead people between then and now, has dedicated time and effort into helping the dead pass on from the world of the living, and one thing is for certain with every case he’s come across. 

The dead don’t talk. He still doesn’t know why. 

Will Hanlon is no exception to the rule. 

He comes in the back door and breezes right past Bill to take a seat at the kitchen table, sitting in the already-pulled out chair. 

“C-coffee?” Bill tries to joke, but his voice sounds flat even to his own ears. Will doesn’t even nod in return, just waits for Bill to round the table and settle down across from him. 

Bill walks on suddenly shaky legs and sits down heavily on the other kitchen chair, rattling the coffee cup that rests on the table. He watches as Will takes off his cowboy hat, setting it on the table in front of him and looking up to meet Bill’s eyes. 

“I’m s-so sorry for your loss,” Bill tries. It feels strange and formal but Bill doesn’t know what else to say. What can you say?

Will inclines his head at Bill in return and Bill suddenly feels faint. His hands shake as he reaches out to grab the coffee cup, just to give him something to stay grounded, and he watches as Will seems to sigh heavily, his shoulders raising and dropping again and his face looking for incredibly weary for a split second. 

_ It is what it is _ , Bill imagines him saying, his voice smoky and strong. Bill was always so jealous of the richness of both Hanlon mens’ voices, wishing his own was so confident and strong. He remembers sitting around the dinner table at the farm and listening to Mike and Will trade back and forth between telling stories or jokes or recounting moments from their day. He can almost hear it now, imagines Mike and Jess sitting at the other chairs of his kitchen table and conversing with them. 

He wants to start a conversation but he knows it’s useless when Will can’t respond. Anyway, he finds he has nothing to say after all. Instead he simply sits with the man he once looked up to as a father, and waits. 

It’s a coward’s move, to wait around for Mike to find out and get into contact with Bill, but he can’t imagine calling him himself. What would he even say? How would he explain his knowledge of Will’s death, other than confessing his curse to Mike. He decides to just wait and let Mike come to him in his own time. 

Being a coward is so much easier than being the messenger. 

Finally, Mike shows up around 7pm, already fracturing with word from the hospital that his dad finally succumbed to his cancer. They told him it was painless, swift and in his sleep and he didn’t suffer another single moment. Mike chokes out all the platitudes with tears tracking down his cheeks, not even yet passed over the threshold of Bill’s house. 

Bill’s been sitting at the kitchen table for hours, his coffee cold and only the light over the stove illuminating the room, in a silent staring match with a dead man. The doorbell shocks him out of his trance and he’s barely gotten it open before Mike’s grabbing him in an embrace. 

He explains the news from the hospital still standing in the doorway and it’s not until Mike chokes on his breath while describing breaking the news to his mother that Bill thinks to jump into action, leading Mike over to the couch and closing the front door. He settles down next to Mike and immediately pulls him over to his chest, laying Mike’s head on his shoulder and trying not to cry his own tears when Mike needs his comfort much worse than Bill needs to grieve. 

Will stands in the entryway to the kitchen while his son breaks down in Bill’s arms, watching them with tired sad eyes. 

Bill can’t help but steal glances over to him, watching the man he’d looked up to for years take in their grief over his death. It’s silent but Bill can still hear the pain, feels it in his own chest just as hot and swallowing. 

Bill always wondered what it would be like when he dies; if his friends from the past and present would mourn him, if they would feel pain over his loss. He’s entertained thoughts about his own funeral, foolishly hoping that his death would bring them back to Derry, back to the town and people they’d abandoned. He tries to imagine his friends paying their respects but he can’t recall all of their faces anymore, wouldn’t be able to picture Stan Uris or Ben Hanscom standing over his casket, not after all these years. 

Grief is not as romantic as it seems, Bill discovers. He would never want to watch his friends go through this over him, could never witness their most embarrassing and intimate moments of sadness. Mike’s face is streaked with tears, his eyes bloodshot and wide. When he takes his head off Bill’s shoulder finally, he’s soaked a patch of water on the collar of Bill’s shirt. 

Mike takes a deep breath that sticks in his throat and nose and leans back to set his shoulders and take a deep breath. Bill already misses the warmth of him at his chest and neck but he understands the want for space, can’t imagine the suffocating pressure in Mike’s stomach. 

It almost hurts more to watch Mike put his pieces back together than it did to watch him fracture apart. He calms his breathing and sniffs hard, wiping his eyes and face with the side of his hand and then rubbing it on the thighs of his jeans. There’s a shake in his hands and Bill wants to reach out and grab hold, to steady him.

Bill feels a phantom tap on his shoulder, no more than the crackle of static electricity, and he turns his head slightly. 

Will Hanlon is offering a hanky to his son and Mike has no way of knowing it. The ghost’s own face is streaked with silent tears, tracking down his cheeks and dripping over his own shirt and it kills Bill to see both of them so heartbroken. 

Will’s gesture is pointless and Bill chokes down the lump in his throat to raise from the couch and grab a box of tissues from the end table in the corner. Mike takes them with a tight-lipped smile and wipes at his face, blowing his nose and clearing his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” Mike says, honey voice hoarse and rumbling in his chest. He’s gesturing at the wet patch on Bill’s shirt, like he has to apologize for something so trivial. 

“It is what it is,” Bill replies, and Mike turns to him, his brown eyes so wide and unguarded. 

“That’s what he would have said,” Mike says quietly, like he knows there’s a tentative peace settling over them. Bill feels it too, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. The pain is dulling bit by bit as they sit together, sharing in their grief. 

“I’m so s-sorry,” Bill says finally, the words he’s been mustering the courage to say all night. Mike smiles, tight, where the corners of his mouth move sideways rather than turn up, and then he leans back in to settle his head against Bill’s collar. 

Sometimes the dead ask Bill to do them favors. It’s usually small things, like digging up old treasure to leave to their kin or deliver a letter to a lost love. They always pass on shortly after, once Bill has fulfilled his favor to their lost lonely souls. Bill wonders what Will wants him to do, what he thinks Mike needs. He wonders if there’s a secret hidden in the Hanlon family history, if Will needs him to take a shovel to the cornfield and find unexplainable riches. 

Bill turns to catch Will’s eyes, to find out what the man wants him to do next, and finds Will standing in the doorway of the living room again. He’s taken his hat off, holding it over his heart with his other hand in his pocket. Bill furrows his eyebrows as Will takes a few steps forward. There’s no sound as he glides across the carpet, just the hush of static electricity as Will settles his hand down on his son’s shoulder. He leaves it there for a moment and then slides it across to cup the side of Bill’s face. It feels like a warm wind, dry like when the leaves start to change color in October, and Bill can’t help but smile. Will smiles back, and then cuts his eyes at Mike as if to say  _ Take care of him for me _ . 

“I will,” Bill whispers, and it’s too loud. Mike moves a little, his hair scratching over Bill’s chin, and looks up at him. 

“What did you say?” he asks. Finally, Bill feels his eyes fill with tears. He’s been bone dry since Will appeared in his backyard and it’s like once he starts he can’t stop. The tears fall down his cheeks and splash onto Mike’s flannel and Bill doesn’t try to hold them back. He’s going to let himself get it all out and then he’s going to wipe his face and go back to being Mike’s rock. It’s just that it feels like he’s lost a father too, has lost the only male role model in his life. 

He doesn’t sob, but it’s a close thing. He clenches his eyes shut tight and tries to get it out, just fucking get it out and then it’ll all be okay. He shakes his head, eyes still closed tight, and chokes out “Nothing,” 

“Oh, Bill,” he hears, and then feels it as Mike moves up into his space. There’s a breath, where Bill’s chest stutters as he tries to get himself under control, and then Mike is kissing him. Mike’s lips are chapped, dry but warm and he tastes of salt. Bill opens his eyes, the tears still falling, and Mike’s face is so relaxed and tender as he pulls back. His eyes are closed, his lashes dark on his cheeks, and Bill pushes back in to capture him in another kiss. Mike’s body is hot, so hot from an hour spent crying in Bill’s embrace, and Bill’s own cheeks are wet against his face. 

He pulls away again and opens his eyes to see Mike smiling. 

“I love you,” Bill says in the silence. He means it, means it more than maybe anything he’s ever said before in his life. 

“I love you too, Bill,” Mike replies, and Bill sees movement at the corner of his eye. 

He’d completely forgotten about their silent third member, of Mike’s father standing in the corner. Bill wants to blush, to be embarrassed, but he isn’t. Will knew, he thinks, maybe he knew all along. The Hanlon men always were smart like that, Bill thinks, always knew what he wanted before his own heart told him. Bill turns to Will and smiles, his cheeks stiff with dried tears, and Will smiles back on last time. He places his hat back on his head and tips it at Bill, and then he walks into the kitchen. 

Bill doesn’t follow, doesn’t move from his place on the couch with Mike in arms, but he can picture Will going out the back door and trudging back through the grass. The moonlight shines down but he casts no shadow, and the dew at his feet stays undisturbed. Will walks from the back door to the oak tree and then right on past it. 

Bill doesn’t know where the dead go. He’s not sure if he wants to believe in some kind of beyond, a world better or maybe just different from his own, but he doesn’t think life just ends. He thinks there must be something else, some other place where Will Hanlon can watch over his boys and where Georgie can play in puddles and where someday maybe Bill can be happy too. 

Bill doesn’t watch Will move on, but he feels it. He feels it in the way Mike finally stands from their spot on the couch, his knees creaking and popping as he stretches tired muscles. Mike reaches his hand out and Bill takes it, letting Mike pull him to his feet, strong and steady once more. Bill’s own body carries stiffness too, but the tension unfurls as they climb the stairs to Bill’s room, Mike’s hand still warm in his grip. 

Mike spends the night in bed with Bill, sharing blankets like they used to as kids in the winter time, when they curled up by the woodstove in the Hanlon den and swapped horror stories until late in the night. Mike borrows a pair of sleep pants from Bill and leaves his flannel shirt draped over the chair of Bill’s desk. Bill strips out of his tear soaked shirt and then crawls into bed with Mike, guiding Mike to settle his head on Bill’s chest once more, face pressed in Bill’s neck. 

Bill lays awake for what feels like hours but could certainly only be minutes, watching Mike’s body slowly slip into relaxation. His brow unfurrows and his mouth drops open just enough for his breath to whistle through the silent room, and he’s asleep. Bill traces the contours of Mike’s face in the dark, the moonlight casting a blue tinge over his skin. 

_ I’ve got him _ , Bill thinks, and then falls asleep himself. 

**Author's Note:**

> recently i re-read dean koontz's odd thomas series (a truly remarkable set of books-- check them out for sure!) and then blacked out on top of my laptop and when i woke up, i found this in a google doc. not entirely sure what happened in the dark period, but i figured i may as well post it! 
> 
> anyway, im back on my bullshit. im a hanbrough truther now, that much is certain. please come visit me on tumblr @cryingbilldenbrough and send me prompts or requests! im so ready to get back into the swing of posting in this fandom!
> 
> thank u so much for reading, it truly means the world to me to have readers stick with me through the years!


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